Lyrics
Or the boots made out of feathers, everyone know that that dress will never fit her
Lampshades of old antique leather, greeting strangers in indian boots Stevens, greeting strangers in indian boots
Yellow ties and old brown suits, not even a beard
And plastic socks, and plastic socks
everyone know that that dress will never fit her
And the clothes, everyone know that that dress will never fit her Cat, not even a beard
i ll keep walking miles til i feel
growing old is my only danger
Nothings the same if you see it again, lampshades of old antique leather
Or the hawking eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street, and the clothes
Nothing looks weird, and plastic socks Portobello, yellow ties and old brown suits
Getting hung up all day on smiles, it ll be broken down to litter
nothing looks weird
and the clothes
or the boots made out of feathers
Getting hung up all day on smiles, walking down portobello road for miles
Nothing looks weird, growing old is my only danger
A broom beneath my feet, it ll be broken down to litter Road, nothings the same if you see it again
nothings the same if you see it again
or the boots made out of feathers
Walking down portobello road for miles, growing old is my only danger
and plastic socks
Nothings the same if you see it again, a broom beneath my feet
i ll keep walking miles til i feel
And the clothes, or the boots made out of feathers, growing old is my only danger
Nothing looks weird, nothing looks weird, yellow ties and old brown suits
getting hung up all day on smiles
Lampshades of old antique leather, and the clothes Stevens, or the hawking eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street
It ll be broken down to litter, greeting strangers in indian boots
walking down portobello road for miles
Walking down portobello road for miles, greeting strangers in indian boots, and plastic socks
getting hung up all day on smiles
Yellow ties and old brown suits, not even a beard
And plastic socks, greeting strangers in indian boots, or the boots made out of feathers
Getting hung up all day on smiles, a broom beneath my feet Cat, a broom beneath my feet
not even a beard
or the boots made out of feathers
Cuckoo clocks, or the hawking eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street Road, cuckoo clocks
Not even a beard, cuckoo clocks
growing old is my only danger
Growing old is my only danger, yellow ties and old brown suits
Yellow ties and old brown suits, it ll be broken down to litter Road, not even a beard
I ll keep walking miles til i feel, not even a beard, getting hung up all day on smiles
I ll keep walking miles til i feel, or the boots made out of feathers
Lampshades of old antique leather, greeting strangers in indian boots, nothing s the same if you see it again
Or the boots made out of feathers, lampshades of old antique leather
Walking down portobello road for miles, it ll be broken down to litter, and the clothes
it ll be broken down to litter
Walking down portobello road for miles, a broom beneath my feet
or the hawking eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street
A broom beneath my feet, greeting strangers in indian boots
not even a beard
Or the boots made out of feathers, yellow ties and old brown suits Cat, yellow ties and old brown suits
Yellow ties and old brown suits, or the hawking eyes of an old stuffed bull across the street
Getting hung up all day on smiles, i ll keep walking miles til i feel
Yellow ties and old brown suits, growing old is my only danger
nothing s the same if you see it again
i ll keep walking miles til i feel
Getting hung up all day on smiles, and the clothes, cuckoo clocks
